


All Well on the Western Front

by bluebacchus



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War I, Multi, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:14:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27532096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebacchus/pseuds/bluebacchus
Summary: The rise and fall of the 63rd Battalion, from its creation to the demobilization of its surviving members.[A WWI AU featuring Captain Crozier's morale reaching new lows, Captain Fitzjames's non-regulation hairstyle, Corporal Jopson's misplaced affections, Jane Franklin's Royal Ambulance Corps, and Doctor Silna Whitebear's premature promotion.]
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames, Captain Francis Crozier/Thomas Jopson (unrequited), John Bridgens/Harry Peglar, Sophia Cracroft/Lady Silence | Silna, Thomas Hartnell/Lt John Irving, Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little, William Gibson/Cornelius Hickey
Comments: 22
Kudos: 58





	1. The 63rd/A Voyage to the Mediterranean

**Author's Note:**

> As a humble historian of the First World War, it is my duty to write the long-awaited WWI AU. 
> 
> This fic is about war, so expect all the violence, mud, gas gangrene, lice, man-eating rats, yelling about Germans, dismembered limbs, experimental emergency surgery, flamethrowers, artillery fire, shrapnel wounds, bullet holes, and rotten feet that are typical of wartime conditions from 1914-1918. 
> 
> But. like the source material, this fic is also about compassion, loyalty, love, and caring for your fellow man while the world around you crumbles. 
> 
> Oh, and there's something else out there in No Man's Land...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crozier is reassigned; back in 1915, Jopson develops a bit of a crush

**Now.**

**The 63 rd**

**London, March 1917**

****

Captain Francis Crozier has never met a glass of whisky he didn’t like, but this one is close.

The whisky itself is fine. It’s the company he finds unbearable.

“Don’t look so glum, old chap,” Captain Fitzjames says, slapping him on the back hard enough to send a gulp of amber liquid down his windpipe. “We’ll be back beating up Jerry before you know it!”

Crozier’s coughing fit fills the silence as they awkwardly sit side by side in front of General Franklin’s empty desk. Finally, the door opens. Crozier stands to attention and salutes; Fitzjames raises a hand from his chair. God, the insolence.

“At ease, gentlemen,” Franklin says. He takes a seat at his desk, eyeing with distaste the bottle of whisky he keeps for Crozier’s benefit. “We—“ he gives them each a meaningful look, “—are at a crossroads. We’ve got a big push planned for summer.”

Crozier raises an eyebrow. The last “big push” had gotten 16 000 men killed in a single day.

“You’re being reassigned,” Franklin says.

Crozier feels his airway constrict and he coughs again. “Excuse me?” he chokes out.

“Captain Ross will be taking command of your ship, Captain. This is a war to be fought and won on land.”

“Because that’s going so well,” Crozier mumbles. Only Fitzjames hears it. He glares from under his ridiculous hairstyle. It’s not even close to falling within military standards.

“Now,” Franklin continues tirelessly, “Captain Fitzjames has already selected your officers—“ he slides a roster across the desk— “which have been approved by me. You will be leading A and B company of the 63rd. You will be deployed to France within the month, and please, Francis, do try to be cheerful about it. A melancholy officer is bad for morale.”

Crozier looks over the roster of officers and considers punching Fitzjames in the face. Gore is good—a sound man and a good officer—but it’s clear that Fitzjames had no idea what he was doing.

“Fairholme’s been MIA since the Somme,” he begins. “Everyone knows that. Le Vesconte is your friend so of course you had to choose him over any _sane_ man. Blanky and Gore are the only decent officers on your list, General.” He deliberately ignores Fitzjames.

Franklin folds his hands in front of him. “I’m afraid it’s too late, Francis. Orders have gone out already.”

Crozier snorts. “I hope Fairholme’s widow appreciates a visit from the War Office in her grief.”

“Must you be so morbid?” Fitzjames says, crossing one leg over the other. He nudges Crozier with his foot. Crozier stands, picks up his chair, and moves it a foot away.

“I suppose you think he’s lost in No Man’s Land? He’ll wander back to the trenches after a pleasant journey across France? There are no missing in this war, Captain Fitzjames. Only dead men.”

Fitzjames rolls his eyes. “Aside from one simple mistake, the officers are sound. Dundy is reliable. Gore is, as you said, a good officer and a better man. Sergeant Major Des Voeux is—well, did you hear about what he did with the grenades? Incredible, truly—and you’ll have Blanky, and—“he pauses to check the roster “—Hodgson, a very intelligent man, and Little, also… intelligent. Ah, and Irving. A bit of a wildcard, recently drafted—“

“You’ve given me a drafted lieutenant?”

“Please, Francis—“

_“—Captain Crozier.”_

“Fine, _Captain_ , didn’t you once say there was no honour left in war?”

Franklin’s face is turning purple with rage. The man has been obsessed with the “honour” of war since the beginning. Easy, Crozier thinks, when he doesn’t have to watch boys be blown to bits.

Crozier snatches the roster from Fitzjames again. “Irving was drafted, Hodgson is an engineer and Little is cavalry? Why is cavalry in quotation marks?”

Fitzjames shifts in his chair. “I may have overlooked that as well.”

“He seemed keen on going overseas,” Franklin chimes in. “He trained my best horse himself.”

If Crozier had any faith left, he would drop to his knees and pray for God to strike him down rather than deal with this bullshit.

Instead, he finishes his glass of whisky, pours himself another, and downs that for good measure.

“Give me Jopson.”

Franklin makes a confused sound.

“Thomas Jopson. Give me Corporal Jopson and you won’t hear another word from me.”

“Done,” Fitzjames says. “Err—if the general approves.”

Franklin looks from Fitzjames to Crozier. He smiles. “Well, gentlemen. I believe that is our battalion! I will assemble the officers in London before we depart and then it’s off to war we go!”

**Then.**

**A Voyage to the Mediterranean**

**On a ship headed for the Gallipoli Peninsula, April 1915.**

“I hear we’re close, sir,” Jopson says. His commanding officer has his elbows resting on the rail of the ship, looking out over the endless expanse of ocean that stretches out on all sides. The sea sprays a cool mist over Jopson’s face as he joins him, leaning over the railing at his side. He does not have the permission, but he’s seen others engage the captain in casual conversation. They have too many idle hours, packed aboard the battleship. There is nothing to do except read and share stories; Jopson has already finished the stack of books he borrowed from the Lieutenant, and if he has to hear Renwick’s story about the plucked chicken one more time, he may throw himself overboard before they even reach Gallipoli.

After so many days aboard, the captain is the only person Jopson doesn’t have a read on. It’s a shame; he’s the one Jopson would like to know most of all.

“Close to what, that’s the question,” Crozier says.

Jopson has heard stories about him, of course. Nothing slanderous; while the men are hopeless gossips, they would never disrespect their commanding officer. He’s a navy man, too, while the battalion he commands is infantry. It puts another wedge between them, and Jopson would quite like to ingratiate himself to the man. He’s always been good at following the invisible lines of power, at making friends with those who can give him a leg up. It’s not that he uses people: he just has a face that inspires generosity. (“It’s your eyes,” the Lieutenant said. “I never want to give you cause to look away from me.”) The Lieutenant secured him a promotion after only two nights in a seedy boarding house, and it’s with his new title that he introduces himself to Crozier.

“Lance Corporal Thomas Jopson, sir,” he says, extending a hand. “Apologies on interrupting your thoughts.”

“Not at all, Jopson,” Crozier answers. “Have you been to sea before?”

Jopson grins at him. “Not once, sir. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Aye, that it is.” Crozier gazes out across the rolling waves. “A shame it’ll be the last beautiful thing most of these boys see in some time.”

His words are sinister, and they take a moment to register. Jopson knows it is untrue for himself, at least: Crozier cuts a fine figure in his uniform, and the small gap between his front teeth is a treasure Jopson wants to uncover again and again. He wants to make Crozier smile, be drawn into his confidence, to be something more than one of a hundred soldiers.

“Are you a pacifist, captain?”

Crozier laughs at that, the skin around his eyes crinkling. Jopson wants to trace each line with his fingertips.

“I just know a bad idea when I hear one.” He turns to Jopson, leaning in close after checking that there is no one within earshot. “The Dardanelles are a minefield. We’ll be landing against a wall of cliffs. They’ll be waiting with machine guns to mow us down before we reach land. And when we do reach land,” Crozier says, lowering his voice even further. Jopson leans in, fully aware that his clear eyes hide none of the fear he feels. “If we make the landing, we’ll be fighting uphill. This isn’t a battle; this is a game of chance. We die, or the man next to us dies.”

Jopson stays where he is, close enough to feel the captain's breath on his face. The sea spray feels cold now, like sweat on a feverish brow. “What do you propose we do, Captain?”

Crozier squeezes his shoulder, and lets his hand linger. It slides against the crisply pressed lines of Jopson’s uniform. “Stick with me, Lance Corporal Jopson. I’ll make sure we survive this bloody war together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The 'big push' Crozier is thinking about is the Battle of the Somme. The first day of the offensive, 1 July 1916, saw nearly 60 000 British casualties (16 000 to 19 000, depending on the source, were killed). The entire battle lasted 4 1/2 months and ended with over a million casualties, making it one of the deadliest battles in history. 
> 
> 2\. “The Dardanelles are a minefield. We’ll be landing against a wall of cliffs. They’ll be waiting with machine guns to mow us down before we reach land. And when we do reach land, if we make the landing, we’ll be fighting uphill." It sure would be nice if someone listened to Crozier, because this is exactly what happened. Then everyone got dysentery and/or malaria and died. 
> 
> See you next time for Fitzjames's German Sniper Story and Lieutenant Little trying his best not to fall in love!


	2. German Sniper Story/Victoria Cross I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitzjames tells a story over dinner. Jopson's affair with The Lieutenant continues.

**Now.**

**German Sniper Story**

**London, March 1917**

Dinner is, predictably, a disaster.

“Alright, alright. I’ll tell it one more time,” Fitzjames drawls. He’s only three glasses of wine deep (plus one spilled on the lap of poor, miserable Lt. Little) but Lt. Hodgson politely asked about his service and Fitzjames, mistaking politeness for interest, launched into the story Crozier has already heard four times tonight.

“It was an evening not unlike tonight, deep in occupied Belgium. Now, this is freshly-occupied Belgium, mind, and the fighting was fierce. The Belgian resistance fighters, bless them, were trying their best, but the Germans were steamrolling through that lovely manure-soaked countryside, taking no prisoners. Not literally, they were taking prisoners, of course, but my God, the _killing_! And here we come, newly minted into perfect little soldiers- me and Dundy, over there, near the biscuits! Yes, charming fellow, my closest companion through this whole harrowing ordeal- well, me and Dundy and the rest of our little company come rolling in, no helmets, no armour, and only four weeks training. Well, we certainly received a warm welcome from the Boche. Bullets started flying as soon as we landed. I ducked and ran for cover, hiding behind a sand dune. I half buried myself and waited to see who else had made it. It wasn’t many. We waited for nightfall, and then we crawled up the beach- yes, literally crawled! Me! James Fitzjames, crawling on the ground like a sea crab- clawing our way past an entire battalion of sleeping Germans and on to the road. Dundy and I stole along the road-- by this point we had lost everyone else, no idea where they went-- and snuck into an abandoned house. A good idea, yes? We thought so, until we found out the house was still occupied! Luckily for us, it had been taken over by the resistance, and they were so gracious. Lovely people, the Belgians. Hospitality coming out of every orifice, I tell you. Well, let me tell you, I soon had another orifice myself. I was standing up- as you can tell, I’m quite a tall gentleman-- not as tall as Lieutenant Le Vesconte, of course-- but I was standing to help reach a bottle to heat up milk for a baby being cared for by the resistance and _bam!_ A bullet hits me in the shoulder. Size of a cherry pit on the way in, but you could fit a golf ball in the exit wound. I still grabbed that bottle and handed it off to Dundy- can’t let a baby go without, even after being shot. I held it together for an hour or so until the blood loss really hit me. I spent a week in that house being nursed by a beautiful Belgian woman with soft hair and enormous… eyes. Really, gents, what did you think I was going to say? I’m a perfect gentleman, even when I’ve been bleeding for six days! Well, we finally got a motorcar through and I was evacuated back to England. I spent longer in the hospital than I did in the war! Not to say I didn’t do my part of course, but what bad luck, really.”

At some point during Fitzjames’s German sniper story Crozier must have fallen asleep. He’s woken by Lt. Little nervously clearing his throat.

“Hello, Captain. I’d just like to say that I’m looking forward to serving with you. Corporal Jopson holds you in great esteem.”

His accent is practiced well. If Crozier hadn’t spent a lifetime perfecting his own, he wouldn’t notice the rough edge that underlies it.

“Jopson is a friend of yours, then?”

“Yes,” Little says. There is something sad about the way he says it, but Crozier doesn’t care enough to discover why it is.

“He’ll be joining us in the 63rd.”

Little nods, a flush rising above his starched collar, and leaves to talk to Hodgson.

**Then.**

**Victoria Cross**

**London, March 1916**

“So, let’s see it then.”

“The scar? Or the medal?”

“Why not both, Thomas “ _Conspicuous Gallantry”_ Jopson?”

“That’s _Corporal_ Thomas “Conspicuous Gallantry” Jopson to you, Lieutenant Little.”

Little leans back against the creaky headboard and beckons to Thomas, standing at the foot of the bed. There’s little room to stand; the bed occupies most of the rented room, and for good reason: most people don’t come to stay at a place like this for the view.

“How could I forget, _corporal_?”

Jopson ignores the lieutenant’s gesture and turns, hanging his tatty overcoat on the hook that hangs over the back of the door. The hem of his coat brushes the deadbolt as it swings lightly from side to side before settling just off centre, snagged by a splinter of wood that tells of past debaucheries the room has seen. Perhaps it has been one of their previous couplings that had split the wood of the door; perhaps not. Perhaps this afternoon they could finish the job, Jopson crowding Little against the door, wrapping the other man’s legs around his waist and fucking him so hard the old wooden door cracks open like an eggshell and they tumble through it. The other guests at Half Moon Street wouldn’t be shocked (no doubt they’ve seen it all before). They’d laugh, until Jopson continued to fuck Little on the dirty green carpet that quiets the footsteps of those that seek out similar hideaways to touch and kiss and fuck. Yes, Jopson thinks, he would like to fuck the lieutenant on that hallway carpet. It would give him the bit of danger he craves. Craves, but will never endure.

“What would you like today, Lieutenant?” Jopson asks, though his answer is always the same.

“Edward, _please._ I don’t know how many times I have to remind you, Thomas.”

Jopson removes his waistcoat and slides his braces off his shoulders before crossing the small room to sit on the edge of the bed. He leans down, mouth close enough to Edward’s ear that his lips brush its shell as he speaks.

“And, _Edward?_ What would you like your Thomas to do to you today?”

Edward grins and pulls Thomas towards him. Thomas goes as willingly as he always does, pleased to be pushed onto his back and covered by the bulk of Edward’s body. _Safe_ isn’t the right word to describe how he feels when they are together. How could he feel safe, when they are meeting secretly at a boarding house at two in the afternoon? Each clandestine meeting between them (of which there have been six: one ending in a bitter argument; one ending in tears; and four ending in sex) risks one of them developing an attachment to the other; something neither of them can afford, not now.

No one is safe. Not with the war on.

“Consumed,” Thomas whispers; a revelation. Edward pulls back from the skin of Thomas’s neck. The wet trail of kisses he left feels cold.

“Come again, love?”

“I want you,” Thomas whispers, finger tracing over Edward’s lips, “to consume,” he pushes his finger between Edward’s lips and strokes over the sharp incisor that has left so many delectably painful bruises on Thomas’s thighs, “me.”

Thomas pushes against him, flips their positions.

Edward gasps, and spreads his legs.

It doesn’t go as smoothly as Thomas expected it to. At least, not at first. Edward is fascinated by the healed mass of scar tissue on his calf. He spends time brushing his fingers over it, feeling the raised, jagged edges where the bullet entered and the mess of an exit wound that kept Thomas in hospital for months as it slowly healed.

Little’s mouth moves over it with the same heat as he does Thomas’s prick. Watching his lips caress the wound makes Thomas feel sick.

“That’s enough,” he says sharply. He jerks his leg out of Little’s reach.

“Does it hurt?” he asks with concern.

Thomas shakes his head. “I hate to look at it.”

Little laughs in disbelief. “But you saved an officer’s life, Tommy! You have the medal to show for it, and you survived. That’s more than some men can say.”

Thomas swings his legs around to sit on the edge of the bed. “For what? To survive to die another day? To watch my captain drink himself to death? To watch him try to have Morfin shot for cowardice? This war…” he trails off. He knows Little doesn’t understand. How could he? He’s had a commission training horses for the last two years. He’s never been overseas. He’s never seen Gallipoli. He’s never seen men die, half buried in the sand after being mowed down by machine gun fire that made his teeth rattle in his skull.

“I’m sorry, Tom. You know I don’t understand. Not yet.”

“But that’s it. We shouldn’t understand. No one should have to understand what it’s like to—“

Little cuts him off with a kiss. Thomas turns his head away just in time for Little’s lips to connect with his cheek, and he tries to shake the visions of death away. He can still see Torrington, lying on the ground as if he were asleep when Thomas left to call for the stretcher bearers. His body was bloated and black when they carried him past, not two hours later.

The newspapers don’t talk about Gallipoli. Neither does he.

Little’s kisses move from his cheek to his neck, then down to his chest. Thomas falls back against the bed, letting Little pepper his chest with kisses until he grows bold once again, taking a nipple between his teeth and biting down. He suckles it as Thomas arches into the pain and allows it to consume him.

He loses himself in the heat of Little’s body. He tells himself it doesn’t matter, that it could be any handsome stranger instead of Lieutenant Edward Little, but there’s a part of him that wants to give in, wants to return the kisses that Edward—Lieutenant Little, he corrects himself—lays upon his lips, but he doesn’t, he can’t. _Don’t get attached,_ he said, right before the first time they fucked. It was supposed to be once, twice at most, but now it’s become the only stable thing in Thomas’s life and it _can’t_ be, not when Edward is set to join the 63rd after another training session at Aldershot. He can’t let Crozier down by having his feelings complicate things. He can’t let Crozier down. Not when he needs him.

He rocks into the tight pull of Little’s body and buries his face in his neck. The smell of sweat on Little’s skin is almost enough to make him forget the smell of rotting flesh and gunpowder and, for a moment, he is free.

“Come here.” Edward’s eyes reflect the flickering candle on the bedside table; flecks of amber light up his dark eyes. A small half-smile plays across his face. He has never looked more handsome, or more dangerous.

“I should go,” Thomas says.

“You could stay.”

There it is. The plea. Part of him is tempted; it would be so easy to give in and let himself fall asleep in Edward’s arms, warm and comfortable in a bed in London, miles away from the war that refuses to end.

It is too much of a risk. Comfort is a luxury that Thomas can’t afford; not if he wants to make it through the war.

He crosses the room and bends down, letting Edward pull him close enough to kiss. Thomas lets him kiss him once before pulling away and pulling up his braces.

“Don’t go getting too attached, Lieutenant Little. I hear there’s a war on.”

Thomas shrugs on his waistcoat, turning his back so he won’t have to see Edward slump, defeated, against the headboard of the bed.

“Tommy,” Edward says. Thomas pulls his coat from the hook over the door. He looks back at the bed where the threadbare blankets pool around Edward’s naked waist.

“I think one of your socks is under the bed,” Thomas says, pushing an errant lock of hair back into place.

“ _Tommy._ ”

“I’ll see you around, Lieutenant.” Thomas slips out the door and is down the stairs before he can hear Edward’s heavy sigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: the 63rd arrives in Arras and Lady Franklin has an idea


	3. Dry Socks/A Charitable Donation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Northern France is nothing like South Africa, according to Sgt. Thomas Blanky. Sophia Cracroft muses on women in trousers.

**Now.**

**Dry Socks**

**Arras, April 1917**

The city is in rough shape. Still, the sun is out and it is uncharacteristically warm for April, or so he’s heard. The rain will come later. They’re billeted in the basement of what used to be a decent family home; now the top floors are reduced to rubble. The neighbouring houses fared worse—two doors down there now stands an empty lot, and the house between them is almost perfectly bisected. Crozier can see the remains of a bathroom, a bedroom, a kitchen. The bathtub is still filled with water; it’s muddy now with debris and dust.

The unmistakeable step of his friend—the one man in this battalion he can call a friend—makes him look away from the destruction of Arras.

“Thomas Blanky,” he says, holding his arms out in welcome. Blanky claps him on the back and pulls him into a tight hug.

“Still alive then, Francis?” he asks, laughing.

“For now. And I stand a fighting chance of staying that way now that you’re here.”

“Only because we’re on the same side this time, traitor!” Blanky laughs again, and it’s just now that Crozier notices a man—a boy, really—standing behind his friend. He nods.

“Ah, this is Hartnell,” Blanky says, pointing to the boy. His blond hair is streaked grey with dust, and his eyes speak of the sadness his face hides well. “Training him on maps.”

Crozier nods. “We need more men like you, Hartnell.”

“It were me brother who was good with maps, Captain. I just…” he trails off, eyes focused on something over Crozier’s shoulder. Crozier looks behind him. There’s nothing there.

“I have a good sense of direction, that’s all,” Hartnell finishes. There’s a hint of a smile on his lips.

Crozier offers a hand, and Hartnell accepts. “It’s good to have you in ‘A’ Company, Hartnell.”

Blanky has wandered off to kick pieces of rubble out of the way of the stairs, and seems to find himself in conversation with someone inside the ruins of the house.

“Have you known Sergeant Blanky long, sir?”

Crozier snorts. “Saved my life in South Africa, he did. Even though he should have killed me.”

Hartnell’s eyes are tracking something behind him again. He wonders if the boy is having hallucinations.

“Have you been here long?” he asks.

“Joined up in ’15,” Hartnell answers. “Started off with the Pals at the Somme. My brother were killed on the first day. Been around ever since.”

That would explain it. He couldn’t have been more than nineteen when he joined. Even now, hardened by war, he is just a kid. A strange kid—he’s smiling at the space just over Crozier’s shoulder again. Crozier sees a flash of grey out the corner of his eye, but when he turns, it is gone.

The basement is as unpleasant a place as Edward has ever stayed, but it is made habitable by the mere observation that Jopson is in the same room as him. He sits on one of the only chairs in the room, pen scratching away at the paper he writes on against his knee. It would be easier to do it on the ground, but Edward does not say anything. There are other men here—Irving, Manson, Hickey, and others he hasn’t learned the names of yet. Every part of him wants to stand, walk away and beckon Jopson to follow. They could find a place—a closet, maybe—where Edward could wrap him in his arms and let him find shelter from this horrible place. Men like Jopson don’t belong in war. Jopson deserves green pastures and country cottages, or a houseboat, docked in still waters. And yet, Jopson is the one who has experienced the war, and he has the wounds (and the medal) to show it.

Jopson finishes the letter and slides it into his pocket. He leaves the pen on the floor next to a small stack of paper.

“May I, sir?” Magnus asks. He’s a massive man with too-short trousers. The voice that comes out of his mouth is too shy for a man of his stature, like his soul is rattling around in a body too big for it.

“Of course, Manson.”

Edward cannot stomach this any longer—to be so close and pretend to be strangers is torture.

“Jopson. I need a moment of your time.” He uses his best officer’s voice, and all the men sitting on the cold stone floor look at him.

Jopson nods. “Yes, sir.”

He leads them up the stairs, out on to the street. He walks with purpose through the streets until he is lost, and Jopson with him.

“Lieutenant Little, what do you need with me?” Jopson asks coolly.

“Thomas, I—“

Jopson sighs and turns to leave. Edward surges forward, grabbing his arm and pulling him back into the alley he led them to.

“Please, I just want…” he stops. He doesn’t know what he wants. To know that Thomas is safe? He can’t be safe; none of them are safe. To know that those nights in London weren’t a dream? How could he forget the burn of Thomas’s fingertips against his skin? He wants _Thomas_ , but he doesn’t know how to tell him.

“Lieutenant, please. You know the rule. Don’t make me repeat it.” Jopson wrenches his arm away and walks back to the main street.

_Don’t get attached._

Edward lets his back hit the brick wall behind him. He presses his shoulder blades against it until it hurts. It’s not a strong enough punishment for breaking the one rule he’s been given.

“You served with Lieutenant Irving, Hartnell?”

Hartnell looks up from his tea. The rest of the men are out drilling; Hartnell has a map of France spread out on the table in front of him, held down against the cold, ever-present draught by a lantern. He's putting in his time. “I did, Captain. Met him when he first arrived in France.”

Crozier sits down on an upturned crate serving as a chair, his own mug freshly filled from his reserves of whisky. “What sort of man is he?”

Hartnell looks into his tea for a long time. Crozier wants to ask if he's reading his tea leaves. A joke, of course, since their tea is brewed in empty gasoline cans and sent up to their position. Then Hartnell looks over to his right, nodding, considering.

“Precise,” is the word he lands on.

“And when you first met him?”

Hartnell smiles. “Didn’t know the importance of dry socks, sir. I reckon he does now, though.”

When Hartnell smiles, he looks too young. Crozier has to look away. There is a moment of companiable silence, and then Crozier stands and climbs the stairs out of the basement.

“This sure as hell isn’t Pretoria,” Blanky says. “Weather was better, for one.”

The rain is falling in thick sheets now, blowing against the damp sheet Blanky hung earlier to replace the missing wall. It does nothing for the chill, so Crozier pulls the armchair closer to the hearth. There’s something that upsets Crozier about the scene, like a family portrait ripped in two. He feels like an intruder, sitting in someone else’s chair, warming himself by someone else’s fire, occupying someone else’s house. He hopes the family who lived here was evacuated in time. The alternatives are too horrid to think about.

“This is bigger than the Transvaal,” Crozier says. “Pour me another one, will you?”

Blanky raises his eyebrows.

“It’s cold out,” Crozier says. It’s an excuse. He knows it, and so does Blanky. It’s only a matter of time before his officers start to notice his drinking. Jopson has, he’s sure, but Jopson notices everything.

Blanky pours him another glass of whisky. “Don’t make me regret not shooting you in Pretoria, Francis.”

“Are you ever going to let that one go, Thomas?”

Blanky laughs. “Shipping off with the British Red Cross and fighting with the Boers really was something. Bloody fighting Irish, eh?”

“And now we’re on the same side in another bloody war. To us?” Crozier raises his glass. Blanky answers in kind.

“To us.”

**Then.**

**Charitable Donation**

**Lincolnshire, March 1916**

“Absolutely not,” Jane says. “I refuse to sit idly by while our boys are out there fighting!”

General Barrow shakes his head. “Lady Franklin, turning your estate into a convalescent home is the best way for a woman of your status to help—“

“Oh, do what you will with the estate, John,” Jane interrupts, “but I will not be running it.”

Barrow gapes at her, flabbergasted as he turns to Sophia for clarification.

Sophia sighs. Her aunt’s mind works faster than her mouth. It was only through weeks of conversation that Sophia was able to parse out the details of Jane’s plan. As much as she dislikes Barrow, she decides to spare him the trouble.

“What Aunt Jane means, General Barrow, is that the generous donations of automobiles that we have been collecting are to make up a fleet of ambulances, and Lady Franklin and I intend to accompany the fleet as ambulance drivers.”

If anything, Barrow looks more confused than before.

“You two ladies will do your fair share for the war effort here, I can assure you—“

Jane interrupts him again. “I will not sit in the safety of my own home while my husband is in France!”

“In all fairness, Lady Franklin,” Barrow says, hands up to placate the beast that is Jane’s ambition, “your husband will be operating mainly from our base in Paris.”

“And before you mention the fact that I am a woman,” Lady Jane continues, ignoring the man she had invited for tea, “I’ll have you know that the Canadians employ female ambulance drivers, and they have proved themselves to be strong and reliable in the face of danger.”

“I have no doubt you would make England proud,” Barrow says dryly.

“I _will_ make England proud,” Jane says, “as will my niece and the women we have already recruited.”

“Then I suppose that is that,” Barrow says. “I will propose the management of the Franklin Convalescent Home to Lady Ross, if that suits you.”

Jane smiles. “Very much.”

“Well,” Barrow says, standing and bending to kiss Jane’s hand, “I shall take my leave. Miss Cracroft,” he says, bowing his head in Sophia’s direction. “Don’t let this new fancy of your aunt’s distract you from my nephew’s marriage proposal. You are, first and foremost, an eligible lady.”

Sophia smiles tightly. “Thank you, General Barrow.”

Barrow leaves, and both women visibly relax.

“That was better received than I had imagined,” Jane says. She pushes her teacup aside and picks up a biscuit, stuffing half of it in her mouth and showing no concern for the shower of crumbs that fall over her lap.

Sophia plucks the last biscuit off the plate and bites into it harder than she has to.

“People listen to you, Aunt Jane,” Sophia says.

“Like you said, if the Canadian women can do it, so can we!” A second passes, and then she asks the question Sophia is dreading. “How is that lovely Canadian girl? She hasn’t come round for dinner in quite some time.”

“Grace is in France.”

“Any letters, then?”

Sophia traces the ceramic flowers of her teacup with a fingertip. “It seems she did not see our...” she trails off, searching for an impossible word, “ _friendship_ as something meant to last.”

Jane reaches out and places her hand over Sophia’s. “I’m sorry, dear.”

Sophia smiles weakly. “I’ll recover. Maybe France will be good for me.”

Jane pats the top of her hand lightly and begins clearing the dishes away.

“Yes, I suppose if there is any place filled with _women in trousers_ , it’s France.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. In 1899 a bunch of Irish volunteers signed up with the Red Cross to go aid the British in the Boer War... then promptly switched sides and began to fight against the English. Rock on. This is one of the reasons why the American Red Cross refused to get involved. They were afraid German-born Americans would volunteer just for the free ride to Europe. (The other reason was that Woodrow Wilson was in charge of the Red Cross and he was a staunch isolationist until 1917)
> 
> 2\. The 'Pals' Hartnell mentions refers to the Pals Battalions (aka Kitchener's Army). Groups of men from the same workplace or town enlisted together and were promised that they would stay together during the war. Unfortunately, this meant that during the Battle of the Somme (the BIG one I mentioned in chapter 1), entire battalions were wounded or killed, leaving their home communities with more men to grieve and a serious demographic problem after the war.
> 
> Next: A captain and the corporal who saved his life grow closer, a new recruit writes a letter home, and Tozer sees something he can't explain.


	4. Four Courts/Letter Home/There are no trees left in Pas-de-Calais

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jopson meets Crozier's fiancée, Fitzjames censors letters, and Tozer sees something in No Man's Land.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wait... is that... a plot????

**Then.**

**Four Courts**

**London, April 1916.**

When Captain Crozier invited him to tea, Jopson did not consider the possibility that he was about to meet Crozier’s future wife. He considered a great many possibilities: a coffeehouse, a pub, Crozier’s own quarters, if he was lucky. He felt lucky enough by virtue of invitation, so Jopson went home for the first time since his discharge from the hospital for nothing if not to scrub the scent of Lieutenant Little off his skin. _Don’t get attached,_ he told the lieutenant. Some feelings are easy for Jopson to hide; his initial resentment of Little was easily hidden beneath attraction, his frustration cloaked by lust. His growing fondness of the way Little sticks his tongue out when he’s thinking and the way his face lights up when he talks about his horses are tamped down and buried under Jopson’s pragmatic nature.

Love, however, is harder to ignore. 

“Big plans for your last week of leave, Jopson?” Crozier asks in the cab to Miss Cracroft’s rooms.

Depending how this goes, he might go back to Half Moon Street and lose himself in the desperate, willing heat of Lieutenant Little.

“No, sir. I’m likely to spend them eating a warm meal by the fire, taking my dry socks for granted.”

“Sounds a fair bit nicer than the dinner I’m set to have with the general. He insists on haddock, _again_.”

“Not a fan of fish, sir?”

Crozier grimaces. “I’d much rather dine with you in front of your fire.”

“Consider this an invitation, then,” Jopson says cordially.

“Don’t tempt me.”

“I rather like to tempt you, sir,” he says, a burst of confidence that is becoming of the medal pinned to his chest. “I can’t pretend I don’t appreciate the company.”

“I can’t deny the man that saved my life, can I?” Crozier smiles. “What’ll we be dining on?”

Jopson grins at the easy surrender. “Soup, sir.”

“Soup?”

“Yes, sir. From a can, sir.”

“Soup from a can with my guardian angel by my side.”

“I’m no angel, Captain Crozier.”

Crozier leans in close, and Jopson finally, _finally_ believes Crozier has understood. But he whispers, “Then I’ll bring the wine, and we’ll get merry drunk tonight,” and Jopson fakes a smile before sitting back in his seat as the cab stops and he gets out to meet Crozier’s fiancée.

“I’m surprised they haven’t locked you up, Francis,” is the first thing Sophia Cracroft says when she sees them.

Francis looks affronted. “Why?”

“Because of the fighting, dear. In Dublin!”

“I’ve been a bit busy fighting the war, Sophy.” He leans in and kisses her on both cheeks. It’s a friendly gesture, but Jopson knows very little about how fancy people behave when they’re in love.

She turns her attentions to Jopson, then, taking both his hands in hers and saying in earnest, “You must be Corporal Jopson! Such a pleasure to meet you. I hear we have you to thank for returning Francis to us, safe and sound?”

“Anyone would have done the same. He’s a good man, and a better captain.” Jopson catches Crozier’s eye just in time for Crozier to look away, abashed. “Congratulations on your engagement, Miss Cracroft.”

“Please, call me Sophy.”

“I couldn’t, miss.”

Sophy takes Crozier’s arm and extends her free elbow to Jopson. “Then I shall make you horribly uncomfortable until you do, Corporal.”

When tea is cleared away and Francis retreats to the library to speak with her uncle (“John Franklin as in _General Franklin_?” Jopson had asked, star-struck.), Sophy places a slender hand on Jopson’s knee and says, “You don’t have to worry about me, Tom.”

“I won’t be. You’re more than capable to handle ambulances on the front.”

Sophy laughs. “That is most kind, but not what I meant.” She looks to the library door, firmly closed while Crozier discusses strategy with Franklin. “I see the way you look at him. It’s the same way he looked at me when he thought I wasn’t looking. Years ago, mind you. It’s been quite some time since he’s given me one of those looks.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Jopson says immediately. Then, under Sophy’s knowing look, he says, “But you are to be married!”

Sophy raises an eyebrow in a very Crozier-like way. Jopson wonders if he taught her, or if it was a habit she picked up from him. “We’re very similar, you and I. We both care about our friends and would risk our lives for them. We both eat the chocolate layer off the biscuits before dipping them in our tea. And we both love people we are not supposed to love.”

Jopson sighs. “He doesn’t see me as anything but one of his men. And since I saved him, it’s only gotten worse. Now I’m untouchable. Some sort of divine creature, free from sins of men.”

“Tom, dear, he sees you. Whenever you look away, he’s watching you. I know him, Tom. I know him too well. He can’t hide anything from me, nor I from him. We are engaged with no intention of a wedding, only because neither of us wish to marry those we do not want. I love him, yes, but as my closest friend. Not like you love him, and not like he will love you, once he stops feeling guilty about it.”

Jopson reaches for Sophy’s hands again. “It’s unbearable, Sophy. He’s so close, and yet—“

The door to the library opens, and Crozier and Franklin emerge. Crozier holds a tumbler of whisky and, judging by the flush in his cheeks, it is not his first. Sophy makes a quiet sound of understanding next to him.

“Come, Thomas,” Crozier says, voice still crisp, “let’s go warm up some soup.”

Crozier falls asleep in Jopson’s lone armchair. The two empty bottles of wine sit on the floor near to where Jopson sits, and the half-empty decanter of whisky, knocked on its side from a clumsy hand, looks like honey in the firelight. Jopson sighs, rights the bottle, and retreats to his rented room’s bed, stopping only to press a soft, paternal kiss to Crozier’s forehead and whisper, “Good night, Captain.”

**Now.**

**Letter Home**

_Dear Mother,_

_I am finally in France! I am feeling a little ill but I’m certain it is just the travel. I’m not allowed to tell you where we are, but rest assured it is a quaint little town that would be quite nice if there wasn’t a war on. My Captain is the legendary Captain Fitzjames. You know, the one who toured after being injured defending Antwerp? We saw him when he came up to Manchester a couple years ago. Anyways, he is as inspiring in person as he is from afar. And my regiment is under the command of General Franklin! I saw him as he waved goodbye when we sailed from Dover. He’s a great man and I don’t want to let him down._

_We are a ways back from the Front right now, but I was allowed to go and see the artillery guns when one of the doctors needed help carrying wounded. The wounds were ghastly, mother, you have no idea! It was very scary and the guns were so very loud. I am thankful I will be up in the trenches being protected by those very guns. I saw something very strange when I was up the line, though. I don’t know who else to tell. I thought it was a burial mound at first. You know, where the dead are buried. But then it moved. It didn’t heave like the ground would if it was a grenade or a shell. It just_ moved. _Like it was a sleeping animal that stood and began to run. It came toward me and Dr. Stanley and I fell to the ground, scrambling backwards out of its path. And then it was gone. I am ashamed to say I was too afraid to find where it disappeared and Dr. Stanley needed my help to carry a stretcher. I’m afraid, mother. I want to come home but I don’t want to be a coward. I want to make General Franklin proud._

_Your son,_

_David Young_

“Oi, Dundy!” Fitzjames calls. “Get a load of this one!”

Dundy traipses over from the other side of the ruined café. “God, the French have good coffee. Even mixed with rubble it’s better than our drizzle.” He slides a mug of coffee across the table. It sloshes over the rim of the cup and onto the stack of letters sitting in front of Fitzjames.

“Sorry old chap,” Dundy says, taking a seat with his own mug of coffee.

Fitzjames squints at the letter in his hand again. “A sleeping animal that stood and began to run,” he reads. “We’ve got a storyteller in our midst, it would seem!” He passes the letter over.

“Well, we’ll have to censor that. Can’t have any rumours spreading about a German super-weapon in the mud, can we? Morale will take a blighty one, eh?”

Fitzjames taps his lower lip with his pen. “Yes, can’t have that. It’s bad enough among ‘A’ Company with Francis in charge.”

“The saddest lot I’ve ever seen. His First Lieutenant looks like his mum just gave him a verbal lashing! That Hodgson is a cheery fellow, though. Good conversation.”

“We’re lucky to have you and Gore. And Des Voeux,” he adds. “Perhaps old Fairholme’s disappearance was a blessing in disguise! Charles is handling his promotion well enough.”

“He did piss on a corpse the other day.”

“Ah, well, boys will be boys,” Fitzjames sighs. “Come, read some of these for me, will you? Charles said there’s still a full wine cellar somewhere on the edge of town.”

**Then.**

**There are no trees left in Pas-de-Calais**

**Verdun, March 1916**

Easy, Sergeant Tozer thinks. Breathe. Squeeze the trigger on the exhale. Listen to the shot, see the man fall. Easy.

Repeat, again and again. Every pinprick of light seen through the windows of Fort Douaumont receives a bullet from his rifle. If not his, from Heather’s, or Bryant’s, or Pilkington’s.

He hates sniping from the trenches. He feels like a worm, poking its head out of the wet dirt after heavy rainfall. If he isn’t careful, he’ll end up dried out and rotting on the surface. A worm of a man who has become food for worms.

Another flare of a lighter, lighting some poor sod’s cigarette. He doesn’t think, he just fires.

A year ago there were still trees. That was what they were trained for: camouflaged in the trees and waiting, sometimes for days, to take out the enemy without being seen.

There are no trees left in Pas-de-Calais. There are only broken, burnt stumps; splinters of wood reaching to the sky. The blood that soaks the ground makes the mud a dirty, dark red until the rain comes and washes it away. There would be plenty of fertilizer, if only the ground would stop churning from the artillery fire. Plenty of worms born in the corpses that litter the ground. When it rains, they are indistinguishable from the burgundy mud. Spots of green and blue that might be dirt, might be grass, might be corpses blackened and bloated by the sun.

It doesn’t bother Tozer anymore. Not until Bryant is killed.

They’re covering French troops advancing on the Fort. If he had the height, it would be easy. But no—there are no trees left so he and Bryant and Heather and Pilkington are peeking out of gaps in corrugated steel and rotting wood that restrict the movements of their guns and make them near useless.

They’re trained snipers. The best in the army, they were told. In Verdun they have become worms, just like the _poilu_ that clamber over the lip of the trench and charge to their deaths against a wall of machine gun fire.

Bryant is firing from the outpost next to him, and then a moment later he is not.

There is a great roar, a hiss, and then Bryant is dead, his head cleaved in two. Tozer looks out at No Man’s Land. The _poilu_ s keep charging, and the _poilu_ s keep dying. No one seems to notice the retreating shadow, Bryant’s brains still covering its muddy claw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Easter Rising is going on in Ireland when Sophy jokes about Crozier being 'locked up' for being Irish.


	5. Generals Die in Bed/Will I Fly?/Rum Rations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitzjames is informed of General Franklin's plans; Doctor Goodsir arrives in France; Fitzjames and Little talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the many delays! It's my last semester of university and my thesis is kicking my ass. Time starts coming and won't stop coming, hey?

**Now.**

**Wellington Quarry, Arras. April 1917**

**Generals Die in Bed**

“The troops are making themselves at home, General,” James says. He tucks the ends of his scarf into his greatcoat before letting the cuffs fall over the bottom half of his hand. It’s cold in the quarry: they’re twenty metres below ground in an old limestone mine. The chalk walls of the freshly-dug tunnels leave white smears on his sleeves when he brushes too closely against them. No one speaks much above a whisper, and it reminds him of a tomb. _Not my tomb,_ he thinks. No, he’ll go down fighting or not at all. James Fitzjames— _Captain_ James Fitzjames—will become a war hero, one way or another. That will show them.

General Franklin interrupts his thoughts. “Your lads are in the Manchester sector, am I right, James?”

James nods. “Yes, sir. Both companies are settling in fine.”

“Like perfect little moles,” Crozier adds most unhelpfully. In the gloom of the tunnels, the shadows under his eyes reach too far. He looks like one of the ghouls from James’s nightmares; he shudders, but does not look away. He waits until they pass into a better-lit section of the tunnel and the shadows recede, the light transforming Crozier into a man once again. An infuriatingly miserable man, but a man no less.

“What are our orders, General?” Crozier asks curtly. He has no time for idle chatter; James admires that about him. It may be the only thing he admires about him. Otherwise, he is as grouchy, morbid, and fatalistic as they come, or everything Fitzjames works so hard each day not to be. He’s a captain now, and it is his role to set an example for his men. Cleanliness and patriotism, he thinks. England will be proud.

“What was that, James?” General Franklin asks. Fitzjames tears his eyes away from Crozier, shamed at having let his eyes wander.

“Nothing, General.”

Franklin leads them to a small room dug into the limestone. There is no door, just a curtain that parts to let them enter and does nothing to block out the hushed echoes of the men settling into the quarry.

“Did you say ‘cleanliness and patriotism’?” Crozier asks. He looks amused. It’s the first time James has seen him with an expression other than contempt on his face.

“The soul of an army,” James replies with pride.

Crozier snorts, the amusement gone.

“Why, what would you say it is? A sense of impending doom? Melancholy and stewing in spirits?”

He receives a scowl. Crozier must know that anyone standing near enough can smell the drink on him. He’s practically pickling himself in it, just like Lord Nelson after Trafalgar in his barrel of rum.

“The will to survive,” Crozier grunts. He sits down heavily in the only chair. Franklin stands at the head of the table, a map laid out in front of him.

“Gentlemen, please. _Francis,_ please,” Franklin says. Crozier hoists himself up out of the chair, stumbling once against the table before taking his place in front of the map.

“We are here,” Franklin says. He points to a spot two miles south of their current location. Crozier says nothing, but James can feel his sidelong glance, daring him to say something.

James Fitzjames is not a coward, no matter what the insufferable fool may think.

“General, are we not here, just east of Arras?” James points to the proper point on the map.

“No, no, we’re here, but we’re underground,” Franklin dismisses him. “In four days’ time, we will advance towards the town of Bullecourt. On the morning of April 9th, you will lead your companies out through Exit 10 and head southeast, pushing the Germans from their defenses until we have captured the town!”

Both captains are silent. James is about to speak when the general claps his hands together in glee. “And we will have twelve tanks!”

“Water tanks?” Crozier asks.

“Tanks!” Franklin says again. “The great machines that will win us this war! I can feel it, gentlemen. With the tanks, we will break through the line and be one step closer to ending this war!”

Crozier exhales sharply through his nose. “With all due respect, General, no one has broken the Hindenburg line yet. You believe running headlong into it with twelve oversized motorcars will turn the tides in our favour?”

“Have some faith in your country, Francis,” James says.

“That’s the trouble, James,” Francis replies. “It’s not my country.”

“Francis—“

“Yes, I know. I serve in the British army. I’m not a traitor, General Franklin, but nor am I a murderer. I will not lead my men—my _boys--_ into another futile battle.”

Franklin’s face is turning purple. He tugs at his kerchief, loosening it around his wide neck. It does nothing to ease the unhealthy rage colouring his cheeks.

“You will do what you are ordered, Francis!” he says, all joviality gone. “The army is run on discipline and obedience. There is a reason I am a general and you are a captain. You will lead your men according to the orders you are given. That is how we will triumph over the Germans.”

Crozier nods stiffly.

James glances between the two men, still glowering at each other. For once, he’s not on the other side of Crozier’s icy glare, and for that, he is ever thankful. “So,” he says, flicking a tiny figurine of a tank standing on the town of Bullecourt, “how about these tanks?”

**Now**

**Will I Fly?**

**Wellington Quarry, Arras. April 1917.**

There are two fellows necking in the medical supply tent.

Harry Goodsir is so taken aback that he drops the basin of warm water he’s carrying. It splashes all the way up past his knees, soaking through his boots and into his woollen socks. He makes a note to find something to waterproof them before they finish setting up the casualty clearing station west of Arras.

The fellows, who may, on second glance, be doing _more_ than necking, are oblivious to Goodsir’s surprise and continue to trade sloppy kisses next to the morphine and the bone saw.

Goodsir does not believe that love is a sin, but he does believe in a time and place. Also, he really needs some collargol to treat Private Young’s fever. He can see it right there, above the last remaining bottle of chloroform.

Goodsir picks up the metal bowl again and throws it to the ground with force. The clamour makes the two fellows spring apart, and he gives them a moment to right their uniforms before entering.

“Good evening, Lieutenant,” he says to the one with the greatcoat. Goodsir doesn’t know anyone aside from Doctor Stanley; he’d only just arrived in France and had been put to work immediately in the tunnels, despite claims that he was, in fact, due to report to the nearby Canadian Casualty Clearing Station, not the British infirmary.

“Same difference, really,” General Franklin had said before beckoning for Goodsir to follow and ascending the long tunnel that led to the surface.

The lieutenant, a dark-haired, fidgety sort, cleared his throat. “Good evening, doctor. Lieutenant Irving, of the 63rd. I was just helping Hartnell here with…” he trails off. Goodsir pities the man. He wants to reassure him that he really is just here for the collargol.

“With the louses,” Hartnell says. “I got lice. Lots of ‘em. The lieutenant has a keen eye ‘n I can’t seem to get ‘em out of my hair.”

Goodsir takes the collargol in hand and, excited to turn this mishap into a learning opportunity, informs the two amorous fellows of the dangers of louse-transmitted trench fever.

“I am just on my way to treat one such gentleman right now.” For their sake, he adds, “I shall be occupied for the rest of the evening. Allow me to gather my supplies and I can assure you the tent will be unoccupied for the remainder of the night. Feel free to continue your previous activities. It’s important to maintain a strong sense of comfort in these days leading up to battle.”

He doesn’t miss the saucy look Hartnell gives to Irving.

“Oh, and there’s a lamp on the upper shelf, in case you need some light. For the lice.”

As he leaves, Goodsir smiles. He feels like he has done some good already.

His sense of doing well diminishes when he sees the state of Private Young. The boy is delirious with fever, murmuring at the dark corners of the room. The temporary infirmary is set up in the shell of a butcher’s shop: the smell of blood wafts up from open grates in the middle of the room and the lamps are the only source of light in the windowless abattoir. Young rolls back and forth on his cot, whimpering.

Goodsir raises a hand to Young’s forehead. His skin is hot and dry; it feels more like heatstroke than any fever Goodsir has treated before.

“I have some medicine for you, Private Young,” he says gently. “It should help with the fever, take some of the pain away.”

“It won’t go away,” Young whispers, painfully extracting a hand from his blankets and swatting weakly at the air. “It’s here, it’s here, it’s here!”

Goodsir looks around. “There’s nothing here, Private. Not even a fly!” It’s strange, now that Young has brought it to his attention. There are insects all over the town; he’s heard them, seen them, but not a single fly has buzzed inside, lured in by the rancid smell of blood and sickness.

“Doctor?” Young whispers.

Goodsir takes the boy’s hand. “I’m here, Young. Let me help you sit up and we can take that medicine, hmm?”

But the boy is shaking his head, shrinking back against his single pillow. His lips move soundlessly. Goodsir moves in closer, squeezing Young’s hand to comfort him.

“You can tell me anything, Young. I only want to help you.” Goodsir smiles weakly. He recoils when Young begins to cough, a deep hacking cough. Mucus and sputum splatter over his blankets and he coughs harder. Goodsir pulls him upright, uncaring of the mess that poor Young is making of his jacket. He’s holding him as if in an embrace: Young’s chin is hooked over Goodsir’s shoulder and he gasps for air, finally drawing the breath to whimper, “There’s something out there,” before dropping dead, pink froth covering his mouth and chin.

**Rum Rations**

**Wellington Quarry, Arras. April 1917.**

Lieutenant Little has one of the corporals cornered against the barrels of rum in the storeroom. They argue in hushed voices. James can’t make out any particulars, until the corporal—it’s Jopson; he can tell by the way he says Crozier’s name—sidesteps the lieutenant and says, louder, “My duty is to Captain Crozier, not to you.”

James claps his hands together. “Corporal Jopson! How nice to see you. Captain Crozier is looking for you, and I am looking for the rum rations!”

“They’re just here, sir,” Jopson says. He does not spare a backwards glance to James or to Little, just grabs the last two bottles of whisky off the shelf and weaves his way through the tunnels. James isn't concerned about him getting lost in the twisting maze of limestone walls. The boy always manages to find Crozier.

“Captain,” Little salutes.

“Mind giving me a hand, Lieutenant?” James asks. Little gazes down the tunnel of the quarry after Corporal Jopson.

“Little?” James asks again. It seems to shock Little out of his thoughts and he nods stiffly, crouching down with James to hoist the barrel up and carry it towards the makeshift mess hall.

“Have you heard the plan, Lieutenant?”

“No, sir. I haven’t seen Captain Crozier since we went underground.” James looks around the barrel to see Little biting the inside of his cheek.

“He’s been very busy,” Little adds.

“Busy drinking his weight in whisky,” James says sourly. “That man…” he trails off. He should be encouraging a sense of unity among the men, not furthering the rift between him and Crozier.

They set the barrel down next to Private Diggle’s portable stove. James tugs Little closer by the sleeve. “We attack on Monday,” he says quietly. “Let your men know, and prepare to lead them if you must.”

Little looks like a rabbit spotted by hunting dogs. He shakes his head, struggling for words.

“You must lead if Crozier cannot, Lieutenant. I have full faith in you.”

“Captain Crozier will lead us, sir,” Little says, though if it is a statement of faith or a prayer, James cannot tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Generals Die in Bed" is the name of Charles Yale Harrison's semi-autobiographical novel. It's one of my favourite war memoirs and also one of my favourite sayings about the War. 
> 
> The lads are billeted in Wellington Quarry/Carriere Wellington in Arras. I had the pleasure of visiting it a few summers ago and it's an incredible place. It's about 20m underground so it stays at a balmy 6 degrees Celsius at all times. I'm sure it got stuffy and hot with thousands of men packed into the network of tunnels. It used to be a limestone quarry but during the war Britain enlisted the New Zealand tunneling corps to dig more tunnels so they could surprise the German army when they began the Battle of Arras. 
> 
> If you ever have a chance to visit the quarry, look for the pencil sketches on the walls! The temperature and humidity of the mine have preserved all the drawings that soldiers made during their downtime. A lot are little notes to sweethearts and family members or little drawings of animals. 
> 
> My general WWI fic AU blog is thevastydeep.home.blog  
> Haven't used it for a while I'm going to post my photos from the quarry because they're so dang cool


End file.
